A Certain Darkness
by brie3887
Summary: Francis returns to the castle in the darkness of early morning. Together, he and Mary must find themselves amidst the plague, Lola, a child, and their kingdom.


_A certain darkness is needed to see the stars. _

It was late, and she was readying for bed. The day had been exhausting, one in which she was ruler of France alone. Without him, their new people looked to her, and most likely with hesitation. Catherine was angry with her for even letting him go, but how was she supposed to stop him? Bash worried and fretted over his safety, and Mary tried hard to calm any other subject's discomfort and concern regarding both their new king and the plague. What had she said, that he was safe at a castle somewhere? She could barely remember, but she knew it was her first lie. It overwhelmed her that she did not know where he was, or if he was well, or safe, or with Lola. All these thoughts beat at her mind as she tried to go about her nightly routine. There was a knock at her door, and she was suddenly grateful for another distraction.

"Begging your pardon your Grace, but the guards say that King Francis is here, at the portcullis. Should he be let in, your Grace?" Mary sensed the girl's apprehension; the tension of plague filling every corner of the castle.

"I'll go down to meet him." Mary responded.

"Your Grace, he isn't alone, they said." She added. Mary nodded.

"Find Nostradamus; have him meet me at the doors." The girl nodded and curtseyed in her dismissal. Mary took a deep breath. He wasn't alone, she repeated, the words leaving her lips one letter at a time. A portion of her was relieved that he was back and even with Lola. While another part began to knot and twist, feeling trepidation and distress. Her stomach grew nauseous. Worrying for his safety was enough to prevent her from worrying about their future life together. The plague, her people, and Catherine were all diversions from her marriage to Francis and now the third party of Lola and baby. She breathed deeply again, slipping her robe across her shoulders and leaving her room. At some point she would need to face the fractures of their marriage; at some point, she would need to adjust if there was any hope of their marriage surviving.

After careful discussion with Nostradamus, Mary decided it was best for Francis, Lola, and the baby to be examined for signs of the plague. If they were clear, they could be allowed back into the castle, and if not, they must be quarantined. She was appreciative that Nostradamus was willing to even take the chance to examine them.

She stood by the sidelines, in the shadows of the castle, watching as the guards allowed them in. The portcullis rose and Francis entered, his arm wrapped around Lola protectively. She was holding their child. Now it wasn't the midnight air that chilled Mary, but rather this scene. The family brought before her. She stepped back further as Nostradamus met them to guide them to a side entrance. Francis stopped at one point to search the courtyard, as he had once done before. But this time there would be no eager greeting, no kiss of reunion, no tears of elation. Mary brought her hand to her mouth, as she watched him. His eyes had dropped, and he turned back to Lola who waited for him. His arm did not find itself around her shoulders again, but rather limp at his side. And Mary did find tears on her cheeks, but not from happiness, rather from her fatigued heart. She was equal parts relieved and troubled. She knew Francis, she knew his kind heart, but she found it hard to resist the jealousy bubbling up from within her. She wanted desperately to see him as Lola's friend only, but it was hard. Her own insecurities of fertility lingered in her mind. She clutched her robe tighter and disappeared back to her rooms before being seen. If all was well, she would have to face him soon enough, and she needed time to figure out what they needed to say to each other.

Later, as Mary lay quietly in her bed, she heard the door creek open and shut. She opened her eyes in the darkness of the room.

"Francis?" She called. It had been what felt like hours since she had given the order to raise the gates, and she had desperately tried to fall asleep while she waited Nostradamus's verdict. But now she heard his gait, his walk, the pattern of his steps as he slowly neared the bed.

"Yes, it's me." He responded softly. Her eyes began to adjust to the darkness, and in the streaming moonlight and dim firelight, she could make out his form. She was relieved; he was not infected. Mary felt his weight as he sat down on the side of the bed, not looking at her, but instead staring at his lap.

"Francis?" She whispered concerned, starting to sit up.

"Are you angry with me?" The question was slow and he hesitated with the last words. He refused to look at her, and she paused, thinking of all the thoughts she had for the past few hours. She clutched the blankets closer to her, as he finally did look her way. This time it was she who looked away.

"No, not angry." She said quietly. Anger was not the emotion she had, perhaps sadness or worry, but never anger.

"Mary…I am sorry." She swallowed hard; she hadn't expected an apology, but perhaps it was warranted. "Mary, look at me." He begged. She raised her eyes and saw the torment in his, the torment in which he wasn't sure if what he had done was right, either as a King or husband or man. Yes, he had sought out and protected his son, but at what cost? This thought alone had bothered him throughout his journey. What risks did he create in order to help Lola? What cracks formed within his marriage by leaving his wife to handle their fledgling kingdom alone?

In this torment, Mary only empathized with him. His eyes only showed exhaustion and uncertainty and asked for forgiveness. She sat up, going to him on her knees, running her hand down his cheek.

"Oh my darling," She said tenderly. "I am glad you are here, safe with me." Tears formed in her eyes, and his delicate smile matched hers.

"I left you alone to manage all of this, to go to another woman-" He started.

"A woman who was bearing your child." Mary asserted. She looked away finding it hard to say those words. "Please," She ran her hand down his cheek, "can we just be happy that we're here together, that the plague has not found you?" He nodded. She turned her lips to his and they kissed, softly and long. Both desired to acclimate their lips with one another's again feeling each other's subtle curves and bows, tasting each other once again. But Mary abruptly pulled away when Francis begin to push her nightgown down off her shoulder. He stopped, searching for an answer to her action. "I don't think-"She looked into his eyes. "You are tired, and you need rest. We have much to handle tomorrow, and I think it would be best for sleep tonight." He nodded regretfully, wondering if she was hiding feelings from him.

She pulled herself back into bed, and he found himself by her side. His body forming to hers as it always did, their hands intertwined with each other's. Mary held their clasped form tightly against her bosom directly over her heart.

"I love you." He whispered into her hair; it was faint and tired, but she had heard it. She pulled their hands up to her lips and kissed his gently.

"I love you too." She whispered back, hugging him closer to her body, fitting perfectly and tightly into his frame. And she thought if they could continue this, every night, this same closeness, then perhaps they would be alright. If they could use each other's hearts in the depths of each night, then maybe they would be alright. Whilst they needed to run a country by day, then perchance in the privacy of their chambers they could belong to one another. Not to France or Scotland or to anyone else, but to one another. Perhaps then they'd have a chance.


End file.
